Nicodemus Legend Fistful of Legend
by Lothithil
Summary: Nicodemus Legend. Dime Novelist Ernest Pratt's hands are full as he finds himself trapped in a town full of women at war. Based loosely on the movies Yojimbo, Fistful of Dollars, Last Man Standing. Some violence and Victorian sensuality. On hiatus.
1. Act I Balloons and Birds Don't Mix

**Nicodemus Legend; Fistful of Legend  
****Act One, Balloons and Birds Don't Mix**

"I love traveling in the big balloon," Ernest Pratt said, bracing his arms against the bamboo railing and taking in the vista of a sparkling clear day, "The world looks so colorful, so peaceful, so... _so harmless._"

"Ah, but isn't it all a question of perception, Ernest?" Janos Bartok asked. "Looks _can_ be deceiving."

Pratt tossed a friendly grimace at the scientist. "Do you take pleasure in being such a pessimist? Can't one just enjoy something without analyzing it to death?" he said as he swept his arms broadly, as if trying to embrace the horizon.

"Of course one can," Bartok replied mildly, "but the mind never rests. I am merely attuned to the finer details. And each of those details, taken out of the context of a beautiful day, can in themselves be most alarming."

Pratt frowned at him. "Alarming? What can you see that could _possibly_ be construed as 'alarming'?"

"Well, firstly," Janos began ticking off on his fingers as he spoke, "there is far too much warm, moist air circulating this early in the day, even over the plains. That could be precipitous of an imminent storm. Secondly--"

"Imminent storm! It's as clear as a bell up here!" Pratt protested. "You can see forever!"

"Storms can appear quite quickly, especially during this time of year," Ramos commented helpfully.

"Exactly," Bartok agreed. Pratt grumbled a little as Bartok proceeded with his interrupted dialogue. "Secondly, from what I can see of the terrain over which we are flying, should a landing be required at short notice, we would be very hard put to it to find a suitable landing place."

Pratt leaned slightly over the rail, looking down. "What? We could land on one of those green things..."

"That is a quagmire, Ernest. As the groundwater has eroded the soil into quicksand, I wouldn't recommend landing there."

"Oh." Pratt leaned over again for another look. "Deceptive..."

"Thirdly, our rate of speed and altitude could prove a disadvantage should some unforeseeable occurrence commence--"

"Unforeseeable? I thought you were clairvoyant!" Pratt added sarcastically.

Bartok continued, unperturbed. "Logic and reason play a very large part in predicting possible future events. Awareness of one's surroundings, considerations of the many probabilities that the immediate future offers, and objective deduction can lead one to several scenarios of a possible outcome." Bartok waxed eloquent as he spoke, gesturing as if he were addressing an auditorium full of students. "Consider the flock of birds that we have observed. By applying reason and logic, one could assume that they will persist in their flight at their current velocity, altitude, and direction. To predict a change in their path, one would need to take note of any variations in the atmosphere and--"

"Professor," Ramos said. The young scientist was staring up at the birds in question.

"One moment, Ramos-- variations in the atmosphere and environment--"

"Professor!" Ramos said, more urgently. He touched Bartok's sleeve. "Professor... look!"

Pratt, who had been only half-listening to Bartok, turned lazily to look where Ramos was pointing, and was alarmed to see the flock of birds that his friend had been talking about now wheeling toward them. It looked as if there were thousands of them, and they were flying en mass toward the balloon.

"Um... what's that?" Ernest asked, trying to sound casual but looking very, very concerned.

"I say," Bartok said as he raised his distance-viewing device to his eyes, "A flock of _Corvus corone_, how strange; that type of crows are scavengers, and as such are common in such numbers only near a settlement or city, where food is plentiful. What could they be doing out here in the badlands, so far from a more suitable habitat? And what could be making them swarm like that? You see, Ernest, this is precisely what I was talking about; unpredictable conditions and variables--"

"Um... they're variating in this direction! Get down!"

Pratt and Ramos pulled Bartok down just before the cloud of maddened birds collided with the balloon platform and silk canopy. All three men fell to the floor of the balloon basket and covered their heads with their arms. Feathers rained down upon them.

High about their heads, they heard a dreaded sound-- the sound of fabric tearing. Bartok, Pratt, and Ramos exchanged alarmed stares.

"Uh oh... that didn't sound good..."

The balloon began to lose altitude immediately. Ramos scrambled over to wrestle with the rudder while Bartok manipulated the controls. Ernest gripped the railing desperately and watched the ground far below swiftly coming closer.

Bartok was twisting knobs and working levers feverishly. "The birdstrike has ruptured the fabric of the balloon at a height that won't allow me to re-inflate!"

"We can still steer toward that butte and make repairs, Professor, but we're too heavy to get enough altitude!" Ramos shouted.

"Throw everything we can spare overboard!" Bartok said. The three men quickly dropped the few crates of supplies and meager luggage they had brought. Still, the ground came closer and the wind began to drive them crazily. Ramos took the rudder again, bringing them out of a slow spin and pointing them toward the butte.

"We're still too heavy, Professor."

"Ernest..." Bartok began.

"No, please... you're kidding, right?" Ernest looked at the Legend Wings that Bartok was hastily preparing.

"There's no time, Ernest. I need Ramos to make repairs... you're the only one who can do this! Take this with you," he added, stuffing something into the knapsack attached to the wing-harness. "Use it to signal us when we return to pick you up."

"Okay... but next time, **you** jump and **I'll** stay and fix the balloon!" Pratt quickly strapped into the Wings. He hesitated for only an instant before he jumped; the ground looked far too close. As soon as his feet left the balloon platform, the crippled craft began to gain altitude again.

Pratt braced himself for wrenching snap as the wings opened, catching his freefalling plummet a mere hundred feet from the ground below. He leaned into a turn and drove the nose of the wings into the blasting wind, causing him to sail high. Once he was far enough from the threatening ground, he checked that the balloon was still airborne. He could just see Bartok and Ramos waving before he was forced to turn into the wind to avoid being forced downward too soon.

The ground below was a sea of green quagmire. Gritting his teeth, Pratt strove to catch as much lift from the wings as he could. The wind was strong and it swept him along, the ground flashing below like a spinning ball. He caught sight of as plume of smoke in the distance and tried to steer toward it, hoping to find a homestead and not a prairie-fire.

"Sometimes, it stinks… being me," Pratt grumbled.


	2. Act II The Drifter

**Act Two, The Drifter**

At first, the town seemed deserted; the doors were closed, the shutters tightly drawn. No people walked the dusty boardwalks. No voices rang out from the storefront shops. The wind drove tumbleweeds down the empty streets until they gathered in clumps along the fences or crowded to squeeze under the raised boardwalks. The only movement besides the weeds and the wind was the swinging doors of the town saloon, her rusted hinges groaning patiently for a drink of oil.

Ernest Pratt stared at the sight, wondering if it were all a mirage.

It had been a miserable walk from where he had been forced to land the Legend Wings. The ground had appeared perfectly flat from high above, but up close and personal, it was in fact rugged and broken, and had turned out to be an uninviting, pathless wilderness. Pratt had dismissed the idea of a quick landing, to wait for Bartok and Ramos to return. Who knew how long it would take to repair the balloon? Though he wasn't thrilled by the knowledge that with every mile he drifted he became more completely lost, Ernest was trusting to his gambler's luck to steer him toward some kind of civilization; a farm, a shack... even a hermit's cave would be fine!

Luck did not desert him; the plume of smoke he'd seen led him to a small town, where buildings had grown up like mould between a grudging trickle of water that a generous soul might name a river, and a greened-over road that ran straight as an arrow from east to west. Pratt had actually over-flown the place before he realized it was there. The dirty smoke he'd seen was rising from the ruins of what had possibly once been a homestead on the outer edges of the town. It was little more than a charred outline, but it had provided a guide for the footsore novelist after he managed to reach the earth without breaking his neck.

Having no other place to hold the bulky flare-gun that Bartok had given him, he gingerly tucked the thing into his belt, having first removed the cartridges to avoid an unfortunate accident. They clicked and jingled in his trouser-pockets whenever he moved.

After an uneventful trek through what appeared to be a ghost town, Pratt had arrived in this street, following the tumbleweeds. Just seeing a saloon was enough to make his already dry mouth drier; he began to walk slowly toward the swinging doors, drawn by the hope of shade and drink. He took only a few steps before he heard loud noises; the crashing of glass and an angry shout. It came from up the street and around a corner; he couldn't see what was happening.

Suddenly there came running down the street the largest cat that Ernest Pratt had ever seen in his life. Easily the size of a medium dog, it was black and white and as fluffy as a taffeta skirt, and in it's whiskered mouth was what looked like a hand-- a _human hand!_

Not far behind the giant feline came running a woman, wielding a broom and shouting curses. She was wearing a gingham dress and had an apron tied around her ample waist.

"Bunny! Come back here, you mangy, flea-infested rat-catcher! I'm gonna skin you and nail your hide to the outhouse door--!" She jerked to a stop when she saw Pratt standing in the middle of the street. Her plump face turned white, her mouth forming a perfect 'O' of surprise. She dropped the broom and grabbed her skirts, lifting the hem as she turned around and began running back the way she had come.

"Excuse me? Madam!" Pratt started after her, confused by the look of fear on her face. "Please... come back!" But when he came around the corner he saw that the woman had gone, having disappeared into the darkness of the narrow alley.

The shop window on the corner was broken and one of the manikins was lying across the sill, the featureless wooden face and one arm lying in pieces on the boardwalk. Pratt poked his head through the hole in the pane and called out, "Ex_cuse_ me! Anyone home?"

There was no answer, only a tinkling as another shard of glass dislodged and fell to the ground, breaking into smaller fragments. Shrugging, he turned away and looked up and down the streets again. This time he saw faces here and there, peering around curtains, eyes pressed to cracks and knotholes. Everyone was hiding behind their bolted doors. The silence was oppressive, and the buildings and streets no longer felt deserted; there was an air of fear and anticipation all around. He walked swiftly toward the saloon, feeling the eyes upon him like needles along his neck.

Pratt looked over the top of the saloon doors before he entered. It was dark and cool within, a wonderful contrast to the bright, arid street. He pushed his way through, wincing as the doors screeched loudly.

A woman's head popped up from behind the bar. "Just a minute, girls... Oh!" she exclaimed, seeing him. She stood up quickly, wiping her hands on a towel. "You're a man!"

"Yes... thanks for noticing," Pratt said, a little nonplussed. "Is that somehow unusual?"

The woman laughed. "You're not from 'round these parts, are you, honey? No," she mumbled an answer to her own question before Pratt could say anything, "no, you couldn't be." She came closer and with a swift hand, she swept Pratt's hat from off of his head for a better look at his face. "You are! You're Nicodemus Legend! I can't believe it! Legend himself... right here in my own bar!" With hasty fingers, she smoothed at her hair and adjusted her clothes to better display her ample bosom. She ran then to the entrance and pushed the sturdy lockout door closed. After she barred the door with a thick plank, she turned and leaned against the solid barrier. "There! That won't keep 'em out for long, but it will give us a little time."

tbc


	3. Act III The Lay of the Land

**Act Three, The Lay of the Land**

"There! That won't keep 'em out for long, but it will give us a little time." She placed her hands on her wide hips and looked him over critically, leaning against the door that she had soundly barricaded.

Pratt picked up his hat and stepped back a little, holding the battered and dusty felt between them. "Madam, under other circumstances I'd be very flattered, but... I've just come into town after a long walk and I could really use a dr--"

The woman laughed heartily, covering her mouth as if the sound of mirth had no place in the sad, dusty little town. "No! Not that... though it has been a while," she added, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "... But no, ya don't understand. I have to tell ya what's going on, or ya won't stand a chance out there!" She pointed toward a table set near the bar. "Sit down, honey. I'll get us both a drink."

The woman quickly laid out a small meal and watched him eat before she brought the bottle of whiskey to the table. It was a good thing that he was so hungry, Pratt reflected, because her staring at him throughout the meal had nearly been enough to put him off his feed. Not that she was hard to look upon, on the contrary; she was pretty, even beautiful in an earthy way. Relatively young with bright eyes, her skin was smooth and fair, and she had a crown of loose brunette curls that hung around her ears and brushed her shoulders. But her eyes were ravenous... almost starved-looking; desperate in a way that made Ernest feel as if he were a slab of meat at the market.

"Now, I know you don't usually partake in spirits, Mr. Legend, but the tale I've got ta tell ya, I think ya better have a drop ta brace yerself with." The woman chattered as she poured a generous portion of amber liquor into a glass. "Where ta begin? This's gonna sound like something outta some make-believe storybook!"

"Why don't we begin with you telling me your name, ma'am," Pratt said, hoping to defuse the tenseness of the situation. He lifted the glass and poured whiskey into his mouth, grimacing happily and relishing the fact that he wasn't drinking out of a teacup for a change.

"My name is Saucy... Cecilia, actually... but everyone calls me Saucy. 'Cause I run this here saloon. I've been known ta have a lot ta say about a lot o' things that some folk don't consider it ta be my business ta be sayin' ought about." The woman wiped her hands on her apron and swallowed, as if the words she had to say frightened her. She began turning her own glass in her hands absently, as she spoke in a low voice. The liquid swirled around, almost spilling as she turned and turned it.

She paused for a long time, but just as Ernest opened his mouth to prompt her on, she suddenly began speaking rapidly in a loudish whisper.

"Oh, Mr. Legend! This whole town has gone mad! It isn't safe fer a woman ta walk down the street anymore. Thank God all the children are gone and safe, but if the menfolk don't come back I don't know what'll become of us! It's like a chapter out of the Bible, sir!"

"A chapter of the Bible, you say?" Ernest asked, puzzled.

"You know... one of the scary ones toward the end."

"Just... start at the beginning," Ernest urged her. He glanced into his empty glass, then longingly at the bottle on the table. "Take a drink, my dear, and tell me all about it."

"Well," Saucy tossed back her drink as if it were water. As Ernest filled her glass and his own, she took a deep breath and started talking, "It started about two weeks ago, Mr. Legend. Mrs. Brewer from up the hill-- her husband owns about half of everything in town-- she took it into her head that her husband was... uh, spending a lot of time, you might say... with a lady here in town. She's a powerful jealous woman, Mr. Legend; that Mrs. Brewer. She came down into town with the fire of righteousness burnin' in her eyes, and she called the woman, right out there in the center of town!"

"Called her out? As in… for a duel? With guns?" Ernest blinked as Saucy nodded her head solemnly.

"Of course, Miss French refused to let her have the satisfaction. Miss French, she runs the house where the girls work... Madam French, you might call her. Anyway, she denied completely that any of her girls ought to do with Mr. Brewer. She told Mrs. Brewer to go home and--" Saucy chuckled behind her hand, then raised her glass, "She told her to go home and sober up!" Saucy took a sip and let out a bracing sigh.

"She was drunk, then?" asked Ernest, wishing he was.

"That's the funny part, sir. Mr. Brewer owns the largest distillery in this part of the territory, but his wife, sir, she don't drink at all. Makes a big deal of it, in fact, to the point of snobbery." Saucy sniffed, annoyed. "She's a right high 'n mighty type of woman, Mr. Legend. Always thought of herself as being above the rest of us womenfolk... better than, by the way she acts. But she was born right here in this town and no better than anyone else at all! She just managed to marry well, 's all."

"Anyway, when Dusky told her off, she went huffing back up her hill--"

"Wait. Who's Dusky?" Ernest injected.

"Dusky French, the madam. Dusky told her off and she backed off... or so it was thought. But the next night there was a terrible ruckus, and one of the ladies of the house was beaten real bad. Dusky knew that Mrs. Brewer was behind it all. She stood out there in the street and told everyone that there was a war on as of right then, and that anybody who didn't want to get hurt had better clear out."

Ernest stared as Saucy tossed back the rest of her drink. "She... declared war?"

Saucy nodded, her curls bouncing. "And everybody heard her. All the menfolk picked up, packed up, and disappeared that night, takin' all the youngin's with 'em. They weren't willing to get between two women who were both convinced that they were right. My own Tom took off with our lad Dandy... I haven't seen either of 'em for two long weeks! But it's better that they're out of harm's way, I guess," a tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away absently, staring out of the window, "but I miss 'em something fierce, I don't mind sayin'."

Ernest poured her another drink, his own sitting aside, forgotten. "You've all been alone for two weeks?" he asked mildly, his eyebrow arching slightly. "No menfolk at all, you say?"

"Not a' one," Saucy said firmly. "And there's been no rest for a woman, honest or otherwise, ever since! A lot of the womenfolk took sides, you see. A bunch of the wives sided with Mrs. Brewer, against the ladies of the Lazy Lasso. Others took sides with Dusky and the girls, them that was fed up with Mrs. Brewer's high-handed ways. Anyone caught alone outside has had the most dreadful misfortunes fallin' on them."

"What about the law? The sheriff?" Ernest asked, glancing toward the door. He thought he might have heard something.

"The sheriff tried, sir. Yes, he did, but it got to be too much for him. Sheriff Dugin, he's a good sort, but he's gettin' on a bit in years. After the first battle, he took to one of the cells in his jail and locked himself in, along with all the guns and ammunition that he could gather up. To keep the women from killing each other if the fightin' gets bad again, I guess. I take him meals in the mornings and evenings, as he's my husband's daddy's sister's father-in-law and that makes him

family and all. But he's like the rest of us... those of us who haven't taken a side in the fighting... we're all scared. They've all gone mad, and it's just a matter of time before a spark sets off the fire, if you take my meaning, sir."

Someone knocked on the front door, then began beating on it loudly. Ernest started, spilling his glass of whiskey across the table. Saucy slipped off of her chair and knelt at Ernest's feet. "Please, Mr. Legend! You have to help us! There'll be killings before too long, if someone doesn't end this craziness! You're our only hope!"

Ernest tried to protest, taking Saucy's arm to urge her to her feet, when the door burst inward, swinging hard on the hinges and slamming against the walls with a crash. Standing in the center of doorway, flanked by grim-faced women holding ax-handles and rolling pins and other makeshift implements of war, was a tall, proud woman with fiery red hair. She took three paces forward and tossed her head.

"Get up, Cecilia! Tell me who this stranger is that has come into _my _town?"

Ernest was struck on how cat-like this woman was; graceful and fearless, unpredictable and dangerous. She was dressed in buckskin stained a dark brown, but the manly fashion of her garments did more to accentuate her femininity than detract from it. Ernest's mouth went dry as he looked upon her, and he felt he knew a little of what it was that made Saucy so afraid.

Saucy stood up, pulling away from Ernest's side with a guilty expression on her face. "Dusky... Miss French... I--" she gulped and looked at Ernest desperately. "Please don't kill him, Dusky... He's famous!"

"Yes, Miss French," Ernest agreed, trying to look formidable and harmless at the same time, "let's not do anything we might regret later... or that I might regret forever!"

tbc


	4. Act IV My Fearsome Lady

**Fistful of Legend, Act IV  
****My Fearsome Lady**

"What you will regret, Mr. Legend," Dusky took another step toward Ernest, "is coming here and sticking your nose into business that doesn't concern you." As she spoke, she moved aside the fabric of her long coat aside to reveal a heavy, grim-looking revolver with the longest barrel that Ernest had ever seen. "Whatever she's paying you, it had better be enough to cover the cost of a funeral—yours!"

Ernest had spent enough time playing cards in the backrooms of some of the toughest saloons and gambling dens in San Francisco to know when not to show that he was intimidated. He had also spent a good deal of time with women, of various castes, social classes—even some with little or no class at all—so he had an idea of what to say in nearly any situation.

This, however, was a first, even for the great Nicodemus Legend!

Wearing his best poker-face, Ernest stepped forward and executed a graceful bow, while making a mental note to remind himself to thank his friend Janos Bartok for teaching him how to do it without looking and feeling like an idiot.

"My dear lady," he said, "I would normally never disagree with a woman armed with such a dangerous amount of beauty... not to mention a .44." Ernest offered up his most winning smile and added, "However, I think that you may misunderstand the circumstances surrounding my presence. I am here entirely by accident, and merely pausing in Ms. Saucy's company to enjoy some liquid refreshment."

Dusky looked Ernest up and down, her eyes settling on the flare-gun that he had thrust into his belt, forgotten. Her hand moved away from the handle of her weapon. "You come here at this time, carrying a gun, and tell me that _**she**_ didn't hire you to do her fighting for her? I'm used to hearing lies from men, but I've got no patience for them now. I'll tell you this once, Legend... get out of this business and out of this town."

She looked at the group of women still standing behind her, near the door. She jerked her head at them and they backed out of the building. Dusky walked proudly after them, pausing on the threshold to turn and speak:

"I've got one bullet in this shooter, Mr. Nicodemus Legend, and it's meant for that witch on Brewer Hill. But I swear to you... if you get in my way, I'll use it to end you and I'll finish her off with my bare hands. You're not needed here," she added darkly. "You are too late to be anybody's hero."

⌂

Ernest stared out of the doorway long after Dusky and her entourage disappeared. "That," he said in a low voice, "was some lady. I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of her."

Saucy poured a generous dollop of whiskey into a glass and drank it down in one gulp. "That woman don't have a 'right side'." She righted Ernest's upset glass and filled it, too. "I guess you'll be headin' out of town after ya finish yer drinkin', Mr. Legend…"

"Leave town? I wouldn't dream of it! I have work to do here. This Mrs. Brewer that you spoke of… I'm thinking that I should go and pay my respects to any woman who's got the guts and gumption to call out Dusky French… she's got to be some kind of woman!"

Saucy looked up at him with adoring limpet eyes. "You're gonna say and help up us? Oh! Mr. Legend… it's all true—the things that they write about you! You're more than a legend… you're a hero!"

"I'd rather be a legend, ma'am, "Ernest said, lifting his drink and clinking it against Saucy's glass, "Those tend to last longer than heroes!"

"But, Mr. Legend," Saucy said, worriedly, "no man in his right mind would go out into those streets and try to meet up with Mrs. Brewer! Why! She'd up and shoot ya on the spot… she's got a double-barrel shotgun that 'er husband left behind, and one or both of those barrels is loaded… that's why this whole thing has drug out for as long as it has! She'll open up on any man who sets foot on her property, believin' that he's some hired gun that Madam French done sent to do her in!"

"You're right, Ms. Saucy… No man in his right mind would try to meet up with Mrs. Brewer. Therefore, I must not be in my right mind... or else, in order to get to Mrs. Brewer, I need to _not be a man!_ Or at least, to not look like one." He turned over his glass on the scarred tabletop and picked up his hat. "I believe I passed a dress shop on my way into town… would you be kind enough to introduce me to the lady who runs the place…?"


End file.
